


the angelmaker

by kimaracretak



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: F/F, Force Choking, Inappropriate Use of Lightsabers, Mentor/Protégé, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Power Dynamics, Togruta Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-27 01:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15013685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/pseuds/kimaracretak
Summary: Apprenticeships are built on corpses.(Five people the Inquisitor has killed for her Lord, in order of ease.)





	the angelmaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AceQueenKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/gifts).



> But the rigors of space impel us into rites  
> and altar-services we’d scarce performed  
> since pre-goldondic times now half-forgot.  
> — _[Aniara](http://gsproject.edublogs.org/gs-texts/texts-used-in-2017/aniara-by-harry-martinson-3/)_ , Canto 35
> 
> While you sleep in earthly delight  
> Someone's flesh is rotting tonight  
> — ["Witch Image"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_GFuodywPY), Ghost

_ii. the failures, on korriban_

Zash should, by rights, be just another person giving you orders, one to be resented, if not outright hated, and proved wrong over and over again. You know the lords like her, or at least you think you do - cold eyes and brutal hands, dedicated to service and betrayal in equal measure. They're marginally better than overseers, but that's really only because they aren't around as much.

Zash, though. Zash talks like she's giving orders to a _person_ , and, more than that, like she actually believes in ... well, you're not quite sure yet, but it's something more than making you suffer, for all the sun makes your lekku hang limp and lifeless with lethargy and you'll probably never get the sand out from under your nails or the Tuk'ata blood out from between your teeth.

Korriban's a hellhole, but as long as Zash is here, believing in something buried in the screaming tombs, it's a hellhole you're okay with being on.

Which turns out to be a good thing, because she gives you one last task before letting you leave.

"The caves," she says, and you suppress a sigh. The tombs have been well and truly plundered by now, at least as far as you can tell. But you'll go back for her, you know already.

But your annoyance filters through, the attitude that got you in so much trouble when you were younger, because she smiles. "Oh, not to retrieve anything else. To kill some of the failed acolytes who lurk there."

"Why?" The word is out of your mouth before you can believe the enormity of the gift you've just been handed.

She shrugs. "You were disappointed I killed Ffon before you could. I can't have you distracted on Dromund Kaas. Hurry back, Apprentice."

That quickly, she's gone, leaving you alone on the sands.

You decide to walk to the tombs, planning all the while. What, after all, is a little more tuk'ata blood when you will soon spill much, much sweeter?

 

*

 

_iv. someone forgotten, on dromund kaas_

There's a corpse still on the floor of the cave when she fucks you for the first time, after Skotia's death. The jungle is hot and your fingers ache with lightning and the scent of burnt flesh mingles with the smell of her arousal, flush with victorious pride, and you -

\- this is the most alive you've ever been. The future is so bright, indeed, you can see it mapped out so clearly when you're bent backwards over an altar, coming shaking around the hilt of your lightsaber, _Zash_ 's saber, the one she gifted to you maybe _because_ she knew the two of you would end up like this.

(You like to think she did. You like to think that she chose you because she knew you were meant to be together, Sith and Sith, different physically - your fingers gouging slashes into stones when she gets her mouth on your montrals - but one in the Force, your whole body seeming to vibrate with the presence of _her_.)

You're alive and others are not and this is exactly how things should be. You're hardly even disappointed when she doesn't let you touch her, just think: next time.

 

*

 

_i. yourself, at least once_

There has never been a time when you were unaware of the Force. A time before you knew its name, yes, and a time before you were able to take full advantage of it, let it flow through your blood and out through your fingertips into the most beautiful explosions you've ever seen.

A time before Zash, when you were a child and a slave and your fear was an uncontrolled anguished storm that had you hiding and chewing your lekku for comfort in the dark.

But that child is dead and you are a slave no longer. Zash is the only thing that matters now: her, and the power within you that she's forging with twisted fingers and an uncanny eye and plans for you both to win.

(You'll wonder later when you stopped being so careful under her hand. You won't wonder if you would have done differently with more care. You'll know, then and always, that you would have done anything for her, like she would have done anything for you.

It's just ... well. You weren't thinking about the bad part of _anything_ when you were with her.)

You didn't need anyone's help to kill the past. You didn't need anyone's help to kill at all, but the thrill of being chosen - of having freedom, support, a direction, praise for a kill, praise for your devotion - it's everything you've ever wanted.

Zash gave you that, and with her, the bodies fall ever faster, bright lights sparking out in the Force and staining it bloody.

Is it any wonder, then, that you let yourself get carried away? Truly, there shouldn't be any blame for that.

You changed out of time with her, is all. But that is ever the way of the Sith, and it's still unthinkable that you would leave her side.

 

*

 

_iii. darth skotia, when it mattered_

There are slaves in the jungles of Dromund Kaas and you're not jealous that Lord Zash has an interest in them, you're _not_.

Truly you hadn't paid them much mind, still fuming over Skotia's threats and more preoccupied with the immediate danger of the Mandalorian bounty hunters. But the way Zash says the slaves - it's like how she talks to you. Like she thinks they matter, somehow, and you bury the flash of guilt that threatens to surface.

You have to kill some of them anyway, around the colossus, at the edges of the trails. They're just bodies: no difficulty, no joy.

Skotia, though. After the hours in the jungle swamps, a damp heat hardly more bearable than Korriban's dry one save for the fact that it has places to hide, it's a relief to stand in Zash's chambers and hear her outline her plan, in Skotia's and see him fall to you and your machine with only a little more difficulty than his bodyguards fell to him.

You've loved killing before, and you've loved killing for Zash before, but you've never understood how murder could be _devotion_ before.

Now you do. You know it in the shift in his voice when he says Zash is killing him, in the press of Zash's hands against yours when you find her in the cantina and she asks you to cheer her up.

They'll all know you're inseparable, soon. They'll see what else you're prepared to do for her, who else will fall.

Everything but everything shivers with possibility.

 

*

 

_v. her, once, and you promise to fix things_

It makes sense, after. The dead she's chosen, the attention she pays to their bodies. How she always seemed to want to slip into your skin, like being three fingers deep in you wasn't enough.

But then it doesn't after all, because failed betrayals are supposed to mean death, and she's still pacing the halls of your ship in her stolen body, its hands too big and its eyes too cold. Maybe you're just weak.

Maybe you weren't ever a good Sith, just good for her. Alone with her, you don't hate the idea as much as you might once have.

She offers you presents and promises and none of them are _her_. Her Dashade body is pinned against the wall, robbed of autonomy, robbed of breath, and it's her voice making beautiful, breathless, choking gasps but it's not _her_.

You want her back and that, there's no mistaking for anything other than weakness.

You don't let her touch you anymore. She's lost that privilege, even though you yearn for the feeling of her new Dashade hand against your throat, around your lekku. Instead you choke her, over and over again, and she lets you, and you know it's not her because Zash would fight, Zash would want to make you hers again, and this pretending doesn't suit her.

(It doesn't suit you, either. Nights, you end up in bed with her old lightsaber pressed between your thighs, rocking back and forth and letting the anger build up inside you even hotter than the desire.

You can never quite bring yourself to fuck yourself with it, no matter how much you ache for it, for the burn of being stretched and filled, the thrill of turning it on and feeling the blade burn lightning-hot between your legs without ever touching your skin. That, too was her privilege.)

You tell her things will be better when you find a new body for her.

You tell her you're looking for one, always.

You tell her that together, you're powerful enough to fix this.

You're getting very good at lying.


End file.
